


Gnoma

by whitachi



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitachi/pseuds/whitachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vossler and Basch must stay quiet within a sandstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gnoma

The capricious weather of the Dalmasca Westersand had turned routine passage through the desert into an overnight affair as a small troop of Rabanastre's knights were forced to seek refuge from the sudden sandstorm within the protection of an alcove in the rock, just deep enough to hold them in and with just enough of an overhang to keep the worst of the sand and the wind out. They made fire to fight the chill of a desert night, but held no conversation around it. To speak during a Dalmascan sandstorm was ill luck, indeed. And so, in silence the soldiers bedded down, and as was always the way of it, the good soldiers Basch fon Ronsenberg and Vossler Azelas set their bedrolls close to one another, and far from the low-flicking flames of the fire. And, as was always the way of it, one of the good knight's bedrolls found itself empty before many hours had passed, and the other's quite full. 

Vossler had made the brief journey that night, and found Basch thankfully not in the death-heavy sleep he tended to, but waiting for him, drawing back his cover to offer a space for him. Vossler found him smiling in the faint light, and quick set to borrow that curve of his lips with his own, just as he took from the heat of his body with his closeness. 

Basch's fingertips found the rare soft places that he had, for so long, kept hidden. He had hardly known that such a light touch to the small of his back could set his skin to prickling, or that a sigh against his ear could make him ache. The desert sands could shape a stone over time; in the aftermath of the storm they would no doubt find rocks hewn newly smooth. And so might Basch shape Vossler; the persistence of his mouth in its kisses and the maddening calm of his hands across Vossler's seemed a storm set to shape him, to change him. When Basch unfastened the leather around his neck and took the collar from his skin, Vossler could only shudder and gasp as though newly made. 

Vossler bit his lip to keep silence, to keep back the swell of words that threatened to break from him as Basch tasted skin that surely was flavored of leather and old sweat. _Basch, Basch, Basch,_ was the drumbeat within him, its rhythm broken up now and then by a desperate ache of _yours_. Basch suckled at the knot of his throat, and Vossler could not keep back a whimper and broken shudder of his breath. 

Basch's fingers pressed to Vossler's lips before he drew up, to let him see the light catching in his eyes. 'Be silent,' he said without saying at all, a shape of his lips as he cast a glance out to the wild sands. If they made noise enough to alert their fellow soldiers, it would be no great ill--they had surely done so before, to the terrible consequence of some later teasing--but in this weather, to great of a noise would attract the worst of dangers. 

He was as unrelenting as the winds, though, and as Basch drew forth Vossler's prick to stroke him slow, and took the heat of his mouth to Vossler's throat again, Vossler brought the end of his collar between his teeth, and bit hard into the leather to keep from one more damning sound. 


End file.
